


the one where Foggy has diabetes

by whiplash



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Diabetes, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-03-31 23:48:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3997780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...and Matt moonlights as his service <s>dog</s> person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It takes him a few weeks to put the clues together. 

In his defense, it’s his first month at Columbia and he’s still getting used to the soundtrack of university life. He falls asleep while listening to the muffled cries of the love- and homesick, then wakes a few hours later to the cacophony of hundreds of alarm clocks ringing at once. All through the day he’s surrounded by the unfamiliar. And it never, ever stops. Someone in his immediate surrounding’s always awake, always doing something unexpected. There’s no quiet to be had. Matt alters between fascination and frustration.   


So, perhaps, he can be forgiven for not figuring it out right away.  

He smells the blood, of course. His first dismissive guess is that Foggy must be truly terrible at shaving. After several days pass with the scent of fresh blood still in the air he’s forced to face far more alarming possibilities. What if someone’s hurting Foggy? Worse still, what if Foggy’s hurting Foggy? They barely know each other, but the very thought of Foggy being hurt makes Matt want to punch a wall.

He doesn’t know how to approach the issue though. Keeps waiting for the right moment. Which, while cowardly, turns out to perhaps be for the best because it’s while waiting Matt trips over his second clue. He’s pacing back and forth in their room, practicing how to bring it up with Foggy, when he trips over his roommate’s backpack. Matt twists in the air, landing softly without hurting anything but his pride.

Matt doesn’t take the Lord’s name in vain, but that doesn’t stop him for cussing himself out for a clumsy, absent-minded ass. He stops first when he realizes that he sounds like Stick. Still on all four, he starts gathering up the things which fell out of the backpack. A couple of books with cracked spines. A bag of hard candy. Half a dozen pens. Several loose sheets of papers, most of them crumbled. A zippered little bag.

It makes a funny noise. An intriguing noise.

And Matt knows that it’s wrong. But he shakes it. Once. Twice. Picks the sounds apart in an attempt to figure out what he’s holding. It’s no better than opening the bag up and going through the content. It’s just the same as snooping. Just as bad. Matt owns up to that, guilt and shame nipping at his heels even as he sniffs the air for more clues. Miniscule drops of dried blood. And something else. A chemical smell. Almost like band-aids.

Turning the information over in his head, like he remembers doing as a child with a brand new Rubic’s cube, he packs everything away. Then he goes to sit down on his bed, tapping a rhythm against his knees as he tries to make sense of it all.

xxx

He’s handed the last piece of the puzzle the next day.

Foggy comes tumbling into their room, heart racing and his t-shirt damp with sweat. That’s not a rare thing, but the sense of urgency in his movements… that’s new. Matt puts down his books and turns towards the commotion. Foggy’s rifling through his drawers and closet, flinging things carelessly on the floor. Looking for something, Matt assumes.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah,” comes the muffled answer. Foggy’s underneath the bed now, his shoes kicking against the floor as he tries to wiggle deeper. He sneezes loudly a few times, no doubt owning to the fact that neither one of them owns a vacuum cleaner. A loud thud follows the last sneeze – bone against wood, Matt’s ears translate – and Foggy curses up a storm. Matt used to fall asleep to the lullaby of nightlife in Hell’s Kitchen. Even so he raises an eyebrow at some of the word choices.

“Can I do anything?” he asks, already half out of the bed. “Do you want help moving the bed?”

“If I want help, I’ll ask for it.”

Matt stops, suddenly frozen in place. It’s not that Foggy’s a saint. He’s grumpy in the mornings and gets cranky fast when hungry. But there’s always warmth to his voice. A certain blend of generosity and self-deprecating humor which never seems far away. Until now.

Part of Matt wants to retaliate. Point out that he’s certainly never asked for help, yet Foggy has made a point of always being right there for Matt from day one. Another part of him wants to apologize. Make it right between them before Foggy disappears through the door. Matt swallows down the childish hurt and sits back down on the edge of his bed. He grabs the heavy book, placing it as a shield between himself and his roommate.

Eventually Foggy finds what he’s been looking for with such fervor. Matt tries to focus on his book, but the sound of a zipper draws his attention. There’s a tiny burst of coppery smell. Foggy’s holding his breath for some reason, and Matt finds himself unwillingly doing the same.

“That’s just typical,” Foggy mutters after a few seconds. “Goddamn idiot.”

Matt bites his lip. He’s not going to butt in where he’s not wanted.

Foggy rips open a bag of candy, shoving a handful into his mouth. Matt winces as he hears him chew on the boiled sweets. Wishes there was some way he could warn his roommate about the molar on his right side. The one with the loose filling. Instead he keeps quiet as Foggy continues to stomp around their room.

As Matt listens Foggy throws some stuff into his bag. Just normal, everyday stuff. His wallet. Some books, most likely for class. The zippered little bag. Nothing to suggest that Foggy’s about to walk through that door and never return again. Matt jiggles his leg, angry with himself for noticing what Foggy packs inside his bag. For caring whether or not he returns. For being such a ridiculous, oversensitive child.

“You eat yet, Murdock?” Foggy demands. He still sounds grouchy.

“No.”

“Then what are you waiting for? C’mon.” Foggy shuffles impatiently. “Only idiots skip breakfast. Trust me. I know. I’m a freaking expert.”

xxx

Matt figures it out, just as he’s about to shovel yet another forkful of rubbery eggs into his mouth. Foggy’s chatting away pleasantly across the table, acting as if he’d never been upset in the first place. He’s even offered to pay for them both, all but bullying Matt into buying a full breakfast instead of just his normal order of toast and coffee.

“Oh,” Matt says, so stunned by his own stupidity that he speaks out loud.

“Oh what?”

“Oh… nothing in particular?”

As expected, Foggy doesn’t buy it. But he drops it, picking up where he left off. Matt only half-listens. He’s rescheduling his day. Making time for a visit to the library. He has some research to do. And some things to reprioritize.

Number one being that, from now on, nobody’s skipping any more meals.

xxx

“Did my mum tell you?” Foggy asks.

It’s a few weeks after Christmas and they’re both wearing heavy coats as they walk to the bus station together. Matt has one hand nestled in the crook of Foggy’s arm, the other deep inside his pocket. He ought to buy gloves, he thinks as he plays with a loose thread. Thought it’s not so long until spring. And far from cold enough that he’ll lose his fingers to frostbite.

“Nope,” he says, hiding his grin behind the scarf that Mrs. Nelson had knitted for him. It’s warm and soft against his face, a very tangible reminder of a Christmas that would otherwise seem like something out of a children’s story.

“Then how did you find out that I have diabetes?”

Foggy’s dying to know. Has been for days. Ever since Matt had casually reminded him to check his blood sugar after they’d gotten plastered for New Year’s he’d been asking the same question every few hours. Matt lets go of Foggy’s arm, raising his head so that he can feel the sun on his face. He inhales deep to fill his lungs with the crisp winter air. There’s still a big, dumb grin on his face, but he doesn’t mind.

“Just figured there had to be a reason you’re always so grouchy before breakfast,” he says.

Foggy huffs. Picks up a handful of snow. Closes the distance between them. 

Soon they’re both spluttering with outrage and laughter.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hey Matty,” Foggy croaks, “hate to ask, but could you maybe get me some water? There should be some bottles on the, uhm, right side of the door. I think. Watch out for random piles of crap though.”

He sounds guilty. Matt wants to think that it’s mostly about the mess, but he can’t help but suspect that it’s as much about asking Matt for favors. As if Foggy hadn’t been tripping over himself to help out when Matt had been the one laid up sick last week. He hadn’t just brought Matt water and bananas, but he’d also stomped up the stairs with the last of their beer to bribe the guys in the room above them into (relative) silence. 

Frowning Matt pushes away his books and gets on his feet. Safe in the knowledge that Foggy’s huddled deep underneath every blanket they own, Matt effortlessly weaves past the piles on the floor. The plastic bottle crinkles as he grabs it. Instead of lobbing it across the room, he makes his way to Foggy’s bed. 

Heat radiates off the lump hidden underneath the blankets. Foggy smells sick, all kinds of bodily fluids mixing into a thick porridge of stench. Matt can taste it, deep in the back of his throat. He swallows hard, forcing away the urge to gag. Besides, there’s something else. A scent that doesn’t quite belong. Matt wrinkles his nose, too distracted by the mystery to notice the rustle of Foggy unearthing himself from underneath the blankets. 

“Dude,” Foggy asks, his voice sleepy and baffled. “Did you just smell me?” 

“Of course not,” Matt lies, thrusting the bottle at his friend by way of distraction. “Here. Drink.” 

A yawn swallows half of Foggy’s _thank you_. The yawn’s followed quickly by another, even though Foggy’s slept for most of the weekend. Matt frowns again, reaching out with one hand until he finds his friend’s shoulder. From there he navigates to Foggy’s face, brushing sweaty strands of hair out of the way before resting the back of his hand against his friend’s forehead. It’s mostly for show, but it also gives him new information. 

Foggy’s tense, his jaw clenched and the muscles around his eyes tight. 

“You have a fever,” Matt says. _Also a headache,_ he doesn’t say. _And you’re squinting, as if the light’s hurting your eyes or the room’s too dark to see properly. Oh, and you haven’t left your bed for anything but bathroom breaks since Friday._

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Foggy grumbles, tugging Matt’s hand away. 

“Headache?” 

Matt does his best to make the question sound like a casual guess. Foggy just grunts an affirmative. The sound’s followed by a loud pssht as he unscrews the top of the bottle and takes several greedy gulps. He drinks like he hasn’t seen a drop of water for days, when in fact Matt heard him drinking from the tap in the bathroom just- 

_Oh._

“You need to check your blood sugar,” he says, already fumbling next to the bed for Foggy’s backpack. The scent, the one mingling with the stink of illness… he inhales deeply and now he can almost taste the sweetness. It’s cloying and fruity, leaving him with the urge to rinse his mouth out with mouthwash. 

“Hey,” Foggy says, slow to react. “What? Matty, what the hell-“ 

Matt unzips the backpack without explaining, fingers brushing against crumbs and empty candy wrappers until he finds the little zippered bag. Foggy has two kits actually, one in his backpack and one in the pocket of Matt’s coat. Hands, warm and damp, wrap around Matt’s wrists, holding him still not by force as much as by their mere presence. 

“What’s the matter with you?” Foggy asks, pronouncing each word clearly. As if speaking to a particularly slow child. He sounds annoyed, but also worried. Matt finds that he resents that for a multitude of reasons. The most important one being that Foggy has no right to be so careful, so mindful of and kind to everyone around him when he takes such poor care of himself. 

“You need to check your blood sugar,” Matt repeats, forcing down the spark of anger. 

“Yeah, I heard you the first time, mister mom. FYI, I checked my blood sugar this morning. It was high, sure, but I’m sick so that’s not unexpected. Anyway, I took extra insulin to compensate.” 

“Check it again,” Matt insists. Adding, somewhat weakly; “You emptied that bottle in seconds.” 

“I’m sick, I even have a fever. I get to be thirsty. Who died and made you the blood sugar police?” 

But Foggy doesn’t sound as sure now. He releases his grip on Matt’s wrists. Accepts the little bag and plays with the zipper. Matt nearly growls with impatience. Instead he breathes deep and slow, steadying himself. 

He’ll not be able to convince Foggy of anything if he’s stupid with frenzy. Something about the smell disturbs him though. 

“Don’t you have to be extra careful when you’re sick,” he wheedles. “I’m sure you told me that.” 

“I haven’t told you shit,” Foggy grumbles, even as he unzips the bag and pulls out his blood glucose meter. “You either found that out from the internet or you’ve spoken to my mum. Again. Or, knowing your very special level of control freakishness, Murdock, you cross-examined some unlucky med student. Now, unless you want me to stab you by mistake you better shift it.” 

Matt shifts, placing his hands underneath his thighs to keep from fidgeting as he waits. He can smell the blood, even though the test only requires the tiniest drop of it. Turning his head towards Foggy he can make out the shape of his friend, but he can’t read the answer on the meter any more than he can make out the expression of Foggy’s face. What he can do though is pick up on the increase in Foggy’s heartbeat. 

“Well?” he says, licking his lips. 

Foggy doesn’t answer, just gently pushes Matt aside along with the blankets. He shuffles, in bare feet by the sound of it, to his closet where he rummages through his stuff. Things fall to the floor at random, do doubt creating several new hills of soft clothing before Foggy finds what he needs. His heartbeat stays high through it all and he’s huffing. As if he’s out of breath. 

Matt stands up, meaning to close the distance between them and offer his help. 

“Stay where you are,” Foggy orders at once. “I’ve accidentally turned the floor into an obstacle course. Sorry about that. I’ll clean it up in a second. Just need to check my ketone level first.” 

And with that, he shuffles off to the bathroom. Matt does his best to turn his attention elsewhere, sitting back down on Foggy’s bed and rubbing his fingers across the woven threads in one of the blanket. There’s a pattern of bobbles and dips in the fabric. Breathing slowly – counting to four when inhaling, holding for seven, exhaling for eight – he recreates the pattern in his mind. 

Eventually Foggy returns. His heartbeat’s loud and he’s sweating. 

“I have to go,” he says. “I just have to get dressed and…” 

Strange sounds follow. A bare foot scraping against the ground. Air moving. Fabric fluttering. It’s not the sounds of someone dressing. Not as Matt knows those sounds anyway. He lifts his head, trying to make heads and tails of what his other senses tell him. Foggy’s moving around their room, flailing with his limbs. It would be funny, if it wasn’t for the toll it seems to take on him. 

“Are you kicking all your stuff into a giant pile?” Matt eventually asks, trying his best to not judge. 

“Why, yes, I am,” Foggy snipes, panting as he moves the giant mountain of clothing and random stuff up against the wall. “Just being an everyday hero, saving my blind roommate from falling on his skinny ass. No, no, please sit down. No need for standing ovations.” 

The words startle a laugh out of Matt. Foggy laughs too, only it turns into a wheeze. 

“You call your doctor?” 

“Yeah. Kinda. Called his office, anyway. They want to do some tests or something. I’m not sure.” Foggy sounds more embarrassed than worried. “High blood sugar and high ketone levels makes for sucky combination, I suppose.” 

“Okay,” Matt says, standing up again. On the way to the door he grabs his cane and his glasses. 

“Okay what?” Foggy asks, his voice coming from somewhere near the floor. Finally putting on some socks and shoes then. “Where do you think you’re going, Murdock?” 

Matt doesn’t answer, just waits patiently until Foggy’s back on his feet. At that point he lurches forward and attaches himself to Foggy’s arm, fingers digging into the thick fabric of his friend’s jacket until he has a good grip. He’s not going to let Foggy walk out that door alone. Not when he can hear his friend’s heart racing and smell the sweet sickliness which rolls off him in waves. 

“I need some fresh air,” Matt says. It’s not even a lie. “A chance to stretch my legs.” 

Foggy doesn’t believe him. But he’s not enough of a dick to pry Matt’s finger lose either. 

Later – at some point between Foggy throwing up in the bushes outside the medical center and Matt calling Mrs. Nelson to let her know that Foggy’s been admitted overnight for observation – Matt decides to count the whole thing as a win rather than a near disaster. He reminds himself of that, over and over again like a mantra, as he sits by Foggy’s bed. He’s pretending to listen to cartoons while he’s actually just keeping track of his friend’s heartbeat. 

Matt’s memorized that fruity smell now. Categorized it right next to the sulfur-like stench of a gas leak. He won’t let hyperglycemia or ketoacidosis sneak up on them again. Won’t let Foggy slip away from him into a diabetic coma or worse. Won’t lose the best friend he’s ever had. 

“Stop brooding,” Foggy mumbles. “It’s giving me a headache.” 

“That would be your high blood sugar,” Matt points out with fake cheer. 

“That your medical opinion, Dr. Murdock?” 

“That’s right, Mr. Nelson.” 

On the screen, Road Runner appears to have tricked Wile E. Coyote off a cliff again. Foggy laughs in response and Matt exhales slowly, allowing the last of the tension to leave his body. 

Everything’s going to be fine. He’ll make sure of it.


End file.
